Iago
by NoteBookAddict
Summary: A short story from Iago's point of view describing the events that took place directly after the end of the play 'Othello'.


A blur. That's all it is. Just a blur of colours and shapes. Of shouting and screams. Nothing makes any sense. I feel the angered grasp of a man pinning me down, he throws me against a stone cold wall. I try to move, blink, shout; anything to escape this harsh dream. But the more I move, the harder I get pushed down. The more I blink, the faster the tears fall. The more I shout, the drier my throat gets.

Suddenly, I am thrown to the ground. My knees hit it with a deafening smash, the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. As I breathe in the stale air I hear the solemn screech and colossal clang of what can only be the dungeon door. As, I open my eyes, anger fills my vision. I look up to the weeping window and see the moon glaring at me with accusing eyes. How dare it judge me when I am the one who has suffered most? Nature has done me wrong and it will pay for its crimes- I growl.

My ears start to ring. Wait, no. It's not inside my head, it's coming from somewhere else. I turn my head, careful not to increase my barely bearable pain. Confusion. What is that noise? I sniff the air- if my eyes couldn't provide the answers I so desperately needed, perhaps my other senses would. Slowly, I crawl across the cold, damp floor. Pains as sharp as icicles stab my toes as they drag along the gritted stone, and I hunch my back to avoid screaming out. The noise fills me, consumes me, and I need to find its source.

My mechanical movement is stopped by something hard. I look deep into the rusted metal bars that formed a door. Using the solid structure, I peel myself off the ground to stand up, constantly clinging to the door for protection. The layered noise gets louder. I see the key hole. As my head subconsciously moves towards it, the ringing gets louder. I look into the hole; the images nearly kill me.

Do my eyes deceive me? Beyond the barred door there is nothing but an empty hall. Yet through the hole I see Roderigo, a former friend, look up to me, eyes filled with disgust. Red fire pours out of his chest and onto my hands. The pain on his face is unending as he damns me to hell. In a bitter room lies Desdemona, lifeless in her wedding sheets. Her skin as light as a dove's feather. Her lips are blue, still open from her last breath. Beside her misty eyes lies a frozen river, filled deeper with despair than Kokytos. Besides her, a stunned Othello pulls out his dagger and stabs himself, gasping for one last kiss with his beloved wife before he too is lost from the world. Pain and sorrow tears him apart. Soon, nothing is left except a shell, more damaged than a ship wrecked in a tempest. Emilia. She clutches her side as the Devil tries to pull out her humanity. The ringing noise gets louder, but no, it's not a bell. It's the screams of the people I have hurt, wailing like sirens into my ears.

I fall to the ground, my own shouts joining those who are lost. I scrape my head, digging my nails into my burning flesh. The pain. The pain is too much. As if the beast himself is using his red hot horns to fight away the compassion that has awakened. It I am haunted by those whose lives I have ended. Their faces melt into my eyes. Cassio, Desdemona, Brabantio, Emilia, Othello. It was me. Me. I had sat above them, an evil god pulling their strings. A puppet master, manipulating their thoughts and feelings, twisting their minds. Me. But now I fall from my pedestal. My own hatred has defeated me, I am lost.

Heart pounding, I reach for the bars once more. But they are far beyond my reach. Someone as wicked as I deserves no help from the rust that shines in comparison to me. My fingers find the edge of a stone and I use it to haul my body towards the corner. As I move, a rat looks down at me with repulsion. It does not bother to run away, for a man who has nothing left can do no further harm.

In the corner, I find loose straw. My fingers move toward it. They shake, but not from the cold. As I mess with the straw, a thick knotted chord is slowly produced. My fingers move without melody, they are scratched and battered but do not stop. I look into the chord; words are written within! Hate, jealousy, self adoration, the list goes on. These are the things I will die for. My life has come down to this. This mess. This pitiful mess. Was it really worth it?

I stand up by myself: nature giving its permission for my next action. The chord I hold is tied to an old nail and then wrapped around my willing neck. I tie the knot, and with it, my life. There is only one thing left to do. I do not close my eyes, it would be foolish to pretend I did not deserve this. Looking to the rope in front of me, I see one last word: love. I will die not just for the love I have lost and broken, but for the love I hope to live on in the world when I am gone. The love I hope to blossom in my wake. I feel something strange- a tear on my cheek. A single tear of hope. Perhaps I will not die a monster after all. But it is my time, I must go. Goodbye world. You were a great and terrible beauty to behold.


End file.
